


Earthly Blessings

by vgersix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Chronic Pain, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), DO NOT REPOST WORK, Fluff, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Music, No Sex, Post-Canon, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21919462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/pseuds/vgersix
Summary: Crowley hates the biting cold of winter — dreads it every year. It gets in the bones; a miserable, gnawing thing. Normally he would just go home and sleep through the whole season — unconsciousness the only respite from this annual suffering. But after the Apocanope doesn't quite pop off as it's meant to, Crowley is soaking in all the pleasant experience the world has to offer, and the one redeeming quality about winter is of course Christmas. Hanukkah. Yule. Solstice. Whatever excuse humans are using these days to eat, drink, sing songs, and bring some greenery inside to warm their homes. He has a guilty pleasure he's been indulging in that no one can know about... especially not the angel. But when Crowley's tender little secret is discovered, he might get more holiday cheer than he could have imagined possible.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 298





	Earthly Blessings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jathis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, friends! This is a gift fic I wrote for [Jathis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jathis/works) as part of [Speremint](https://speremint.tumblr.com/)'s 2019 Secret Santa Fic Exchange! Jathis asked for anything with fluffy Ineffable Husbands, so this is what I came up with. I've been seeing more and more fics where Crowley has chronic pain and liked the idea so I dropped a dash of that in here as well. Hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> Featuring amazing art by [cassieoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh)!

Crowley burrowed deeper into the furry cocoon of his hooded coat, gloved hands in his pockets, and exhaled a cloud of visible air.

This marked his third visit of the week to this spot, and he hoped to continue to go unnoticed.

On this particular occasion, he lingered across the street, sharing a blessed… erm, cursed… Oh, who knew, anymore? In any case it was a relatively comfortable park bench he was happy to share with the old woman feeding the pigeons. The traffic and noise made this a less than ideal position for close observation of the building in question, but it was a bad pain day, and he wasn’t prepared to stand around hovering outside the entrance again. He shifted, sprawling a bit deeper against the wooden panels.

Snakes were never meant to have legs, he thought — it had been the right order of things, after all, removing them. They just tended to cause a lot of unnecessary and almost constant discomfort over time. But they came with the body, so what could you do?

Every now and again, one of the two large, wooden doors that led into the church would swing open, offering Crowley a taste of what was happening inside. He couldn’t see much, naturally — just a glimpse of red carpeting over wooden floors — but even from here the sounds of “Good King Wenceslas” were unmistakable on the icy winter air.

“Carol of the Bells” marked the beginning of the finale, so Crowley gave in, that wickedly minor key proving too tempting to resist. He got to his feet, left the old woman to her pigeons, and ambled casually across the street. He sidled up next to the double doors, leaning against the old wooden frame. He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible without imposing any actual invisibility on the reality around him. After all, they were trying to keep the unnecessary miracles to a minimum, these days.

After a minute or so, an old man came along, nodded politely to Crowley, and opened the door. As he passed through, Crowley stole a peek inside — he could see all the way up the long aisle leading to the altar, (which in this case was really more of a simple podium) and most of the choir members who were standing there, all lined up on a little set of wooden risers. They each held a simple printed page in hand from which they read their music. Mostly women, though a small section of bass and tenors clustered around the bottom two rows, rounding out the overall sound. In a blink, the door swung closed again, muffling the sound once more.

Crowley shuffled on the concrete, his left leg working on going numb already. Bless it, he thought. It wasn’t taking any time at all, today. Something about the cold air, the threat of snow in the clouds… seemed to make it worse. He just wanted to go take a nice, long nap. Instead, he leaned harder against the doorframe, taking most of the weight off his left leg.

“You’re welcome to go inside and sit down, if you like,” a voice said.

Crowley flinched, realizing the speaker must be addressing him. He turned, and there she was, the halo of fluff circling his furry hood having just blocked her out of view. She was a young woman, with dark hair and a welcoming smile.

“Oh,” he said, instinctively standing up straighter to mask his discomfort. “Uh, no, I’m alright.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “I’ve seen you here before. All are welcome.”

“Uh,” he said, already beginning to move away. “Yeah. No thanks.”

He hurried into the alley before the woman could question him any further. He thought he heard her call after him, but he didn’t turn to look.

As he walked, Crowley contemplated staying away for a while, not wanting to stir up any trouble. If a human had noticed him hovering around the entrance to a church, then surely Heaven or Hell might be expected to.

 _Yeah well, fuck them_ , he thought. _What are they going to do about it, anyway?_

In years past, it might not have bothered him so much. He might have just gone home and terrorized his plants, satisfied that he too deserved no better than the daily pain and nightly visions that plagued him through fitful sleep. Accepted his fate of always wanting, always desiring, but never having. He’d have told himself this was his lot and tried not to think about it again.

Crowley couldn’t help the smile that pricked at the corner of his mouth as he popped open the door to the Bentley, sliding behind the wheel. His eyes cut instinctively over to the empty, angel-shaped passenger seat next to him. He knew better... now.

So no, he wouldn’t forget about it, not this time. He craved that music, hungered after it like some kind of soothing balm. He needed more of it, and he was no longer in the habit of denying himself the things he needed. He wasn’t going to let one nosey human keep him away. He’d just come back tomorrow.

Possible medicinal properties of music aside, there was another reason. Ever since the Apocalypse-that-Wasn’t, Crowley had been finding that he couldn’t avoid a newfound sense of urgency about every little Earthly pleasure — even things he wouldn’t have ordinarily considered particularly precious before.

The Bentley tore out of the alley and onto the main street, heading towards the bookshop at not quite Crowley’s usual speed, but near enough. (He’d promised Aziraphale to stop taking so many needless risks with his own bodily safety. You couldn’t exactly put in for a new one when you were actively doing everything in your power to avoid speaking to your boss, after all). He parked haphazardly, more or less hugging the curb, and flung the door open as he slithered out of the car.

He tried to shake the numb sensation out of his leg as he went, and was marginally successful. Nevertheless, he was looking forward to a nice long sit down at the Ritz later. It was unsettling, realizing he’d been spotted. He shook himself out as he made his way up the steps, hoping the woman hadn’t observed him too closely. Maybe she wouldn’t even recognize him tomorrow, if he was careful.

“Oh, right,” he reminded himself, doubling back to duck into the back seat of the car and grabbing the little rectangular box marked, “~Angel.”

He wasn’t even all the way across the threshold before the sounds of Mariah Carey began to dance ruthlessly across his eardrums.

“Oh, Satan help me,” he said, gliding across the rotunda with its stacks of wayward volumes piled up on the marble floor.

“Is that you, Crowley?” A cheerful voice cut through the refrain of “ _All I want for Christmas is youuuuu… baby!_ ”

He turned the corner, meeting Aziraphale as he appeared from his little office space in the back room, grinning from ear to ear.

“If you don’t turn that rubbish off this blessed minute” Crowley said, “I will light this building on fire again my bloody self.”

Aziraphale gasped, crossing the book strewn floor to greet him. “You will not.”

“I might do, actually.” Crowley held out the box and glanced away to glare at the Victrola. “It’s been a bad day. Push me, I dare you. Anyway, I thought we said no unnecessary miracles.”

“Ooh!” exclaimed the angel, taking the lid from the gift-wrapped box of chocolates with a gleeful expression. “Thank you, my dear.”

He chose a chocolate at random, popping it into his mouth. “Mmm, what miracle?” he asked around it.

“You’re telling me they released this monstrosity on LP? And you spent actual money on it?”

“Well,” Aziraphale swallowed the chocolate. “You said I ought to give more modern music a chance… and it _is_ Christmas.”

“It is December 19th, is what it is,” Crowley said scathingly, going over to the Victrola. “You know, I think this might be an actual curse. I wonder who’s responsible for it. Byleth?[1] Could be. It’d be his style.”

Aziraphale chuckled, wiggling into his coat. “Well, I suppose we’re out, anyway,” he said. “You can switch it off.”

“Praise His Unholy Name,” Crowley said, lifting the needle and setting it aside.

Aziraphale pinched his lips, glaring at him. “Oh, why are you always such a Scrooge? It’s the best time of the year. Anyway, I was rather a good sport about all your Halloween nonsense this time, wasn’t I?”

“Feh,” huffed Crowley. “It is the superior holiday in every _conceivable_ way. Yet, come November 1st, your lot can’t wait to send it packing like yesterday’s garbage.”

“November 1st is the only part that actually matters…” Aziraphale sighed, looking at Crowley as if he were the most hopeless of causes.

“Hmm?” The demon appeared not to be following him.

“All Saints Day, Crowley. That’s the whole point.”

“Hnn,” Crowley shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale opened the door, finally taking a moment to really look Crowley over. “It _has_ been a bad one, hasn’t it?”

“I said so, didn’t I?” Crowley covered his limp with an extra bit of swagger in his walk, following Aziraphale to the door.

The angel looked less than convinced by this performance. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry.”

“You know what this bloody cold does to the bones,” Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale turned from the door, reaching out to adjust the lapels of Crowley’s jacket, quite needlessly, and zipping his coat further up over top of them. “We don’t have to go out, you know. We could just stay in on the sofa.”

“No,” sighed Crowley, hiding a smile. “Been looking forward to this all day,” he muttered under his breath. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Aziraphale met his eye with a mischievous glimmer. “For the world?”

“Exactly,” Crowley smirked. “Come on, angel — no sense hovering out here in the cold. Let’s go.”

* * *

A couple of days later, Crowley found himself outside the church again, hovering once more on the pavement. He’d dispensed with the park bench this time, foregoing comfort for closer proximity to the sound of music which was emanating from inside.

It wasn’t long before he spotted the woman coming his way.

“Blessings above…” he muttered under his breath.

“Blessed be,” she said cheerfully, apparently mistaking his comment for a positive one. “Hi,” she said, offering a hand in greeting. “I’m Mary.”

“Of course you are,” Crowley said, taking Mary’s hand and giving it a half-hearted shake.

She frowned, cocking her head to one side.

“I mean, erm,” Crowley corrected himself. “Hi, Mary. Nice to meet you.”

He hoped that would be it. They’d both done the tolerably polite thing and now she would go away.

“I’ve seen you out here before,” she said, smiling.

Oh, Satan. She was going to try at making _conversation_. Crowley sighed inwardly.

“So you mentioned,” he said.

“Right.” She tried a new tack. “Which one’s yours?”

“Hm?” Crowley hummed.

“The singers. Sorry, I just assumed… you’re family, or?”

“Oh,” Crowley’s eyes went wide behind his glasses. “No, definitely not. Not me, nope.”

“Okay,” she laughed. “So you don’t know anyone in the choir?”

“Have you got to _know_ someone to care about the music?” Crowley bit, realizing only belatedly how antagonistic it must have sounded.

Well, shit, if he sounded antagonistic, then all the better for it. Why didn’t dear Mary just go on about whatever she was about and let him well enough alone? He was exuding every ounce of ‘do not bother me’ body language he could possibly conjure up. That she wasn’t taking the hint was just downright rude.

“Oh,” Mary said. “Well, no. Of course not. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“Right,” said Crowley, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “Nice meeting you, then.”

He turned away, pointedly ignoring her.

“Well,” she said, producing a small pamphlet from a pocket on her apron. “If you’re interested in knowing more about the choir, here’s some information.”

“Hm,” said Crowley, wondering faintly what the paper might do to his skin if he touched it.

Well, he was wearing gloves, after all. He offered a smile that likely came out like more of a grimace, but took the pamphlet. He shoved it in his pocket without another word.

“Right,” said Mary, clearly having had enough of Crowley’s dismissive verbal abuse, “Well, if you decide you’d like a better view from somewhere a bit warmer, you’re welcome to come inside. They’ll be practicing until…”

“Six. Yeah, I know,” he said, not even bothering to look at her again. “Bye now.”

In his peripheral vision, he could see she’d pressed her lips together in a grimace, raising her eyebrows as she turned to walk away. Finally.

All right, so maybe that last bit was a touch unnecessary, but if his goal was getting her not to bother him again, it was best to be just a little rude. He was already planning to come back again tomorrow, and he hoped she’d gotten the message to leave him well enough alone when he did. He wasn’t going to let one annoying human keep him away from this. It was bad enough already, being reduced to shivering in the doorway like an exiled orphan. He tried not to reflect too pointedly on just how apt that comparison was, really.

The next day he was back on the pavement at four on the dot — not wanting to miss a second of the next to last rehearsal. Barring any further interruptions... (he thought disparagingly back to the day before...) he would still only have one more chance to listen to this thing play out in its entirety. The night of Christmas, there would be droves of people about, and his little spy location would suddenly become quite useless. He wouldn’t want to have to explain himself over and over again. It was bad enough now.

Sure, there were similar performances available to watch on telly, and certainly the same musical numbers could be streamed directly into his ears via a multitude of recorded audio services, but there was just something about live performance that couldn’t be, likely never would be, duplicated.

For one thing, it was one of life’s little pleasures for a demon to pick out all the people in the audience who were entertaining private little shameful fantasies inside their own skulls while sitting here in church, listening to hymns. The sheer hypocrisy and lasciviousness of it was just too delicious to pass up. Occasionally, you picked up on one from a choir member themselves, or clergy, and that was just the cherry on top of the sin-flavored pie.

Naturally, the irony of Crowley’s own hypocrisy was not lost on him. Coming here day after day while being a perfect “Scrooge” for all other intents and purposes, as the angel had put it.

Fuck, his legs hurt. They were really acting up again today. He could feel the bones in his left ankle starting to ache, and he instinctively knew it was only going to get worse. Pretty soon the muscles would be spasming, and he’d be doing well to stand at all.

Eh, he decided suddenly, he’d just come back again tomorrow for the full play through. Mary’s probing questions had spoiled his mood, anyway. He was tired, and irritated, and he wanted to sit down. And, despite what Heaven and Hell might have been tricked into believing, as far as Crowley was aware, he had not actually developed any supernatural ability to swim through holy water or walk through a sanctified place without dire ramifications just yet. So, he couldn’t sit here, naturally, which was the crux of his entire problem.

Maybe he’d just go see what the angel was up to. Go for an early dinner. The Ritz twice in one week might be a bit excessive, but Crowley had found himself thoroughly embracing the habit of excess, lately. Maybe he’d bring more chocolate, too. And flowers. Flowers were nice, and they always made the angel light up like his very own living, breathing Christmas tree topper.

* * *

It was Aziraphale’s idea to go by the candy shop on their way back from the Ritz, and Crowley was feeling a bit better after a nice long meal and a bit of wine, so he agreed to walk the quarter of a mile up the street it would take to get there, leaving the Bentley at the curb.

He hadn’t really thought about it, but as the sounds of “Joy to the World” rang softly in his ears, he realized. They were going to pass right by the church, and the rehearsal would still be going on. He checked his watch, on instinct more than anything. Yep, it was only five forty-five.

Oh well, he thought. He’d just ignore it and maybe the angel wouldn’t notice. He glanced over discreetly at Aziraphale.

Shit. Unlikely.

The angel’s eyes had widened, his hands had ceased to fidget and instead were clasped reverently in front of him, and his face had broken into a dazzling smile.

“Oh,” he said, as if someone had just offered him ice cream. “How lovely.”

“Hm?” Crowley picked an invisible speck from his coat, feigning ignorance.

Aziraphale twittered quickly ahead, leaving Crowley ambling behind.

“There’s music,” he said. “Oh!”

The angel came to a stop in front of the church, peering inside.

Crowley dragged his feet, hoping maybe the angel would get his fill before Crowley had even closed the distance, but of course by the time he came to a stop next to Aziraphale, he was bouncing on his heels, play conducting the choir with happily dancing fingers. He was grinning from ear to ear, and Crowley could have sworn his rosy pink cheeks had little flecks of gold shining in them, too.

“Oh, you’re back! Hello,” said a friendly, feminine voice.

Crowley seized, the muscles in his neck and shoulders rising along with the tendons in his throat, and he froze. Shit. _Shit shit shit double, triple shit shit. Mary._

“Oh, hello there,” said Aziraphale, cheerfully reaching out to shake Mary’s hand. “Are you part of this delightful programme?”

Crowley stood between them, hands firmly dug into his pockets, hoping they would do enough chittering all on their own that neither would notice him.

“So, you brought someone along this time — at least you won’t be standing out here in the cold all on your own,” Mary said, looking pointedly at Crowley.

 _Shit_.

Crowley strongly considered cursing her with a miserable but not likely to be deadly strain of flu that was currently going around. It would serve her right, and no one would know. Flu was a perfectly normal affliction this time of the year — who would suspect it was a demonic miracle, after all? It wasn’t as if they were even paying attention at the moment.

 _Play dumb_ , he thought.

“Uhhh…” Crowley said. “Do I know you?”

She frowned at him.

 _Fuck, not that dumb_.

She returned her attention to Aziraphale, whom she’d clearly decided was the reasonable one of the two of them. _Oh, lady_ — he thought. _You’ve no idea. Give him some time_.

“He’s out here every day,” she was saying to Aziraphale.

“Not _every_ day,” Crowley interjected, wincing as he said it. He’d skipped a few. But of course, by saying such, he’d admitted to having come here at all.

Aziraphale turned to look at him, blissful disbelief written on his face. Crowley turtled his head back into the hood of his coat and said nothing.

Mary’s gaze darted between the two of them, and she looked chagrined. Oh, good, Crowley thought. She at least had enough social awareness to recognize her mistake — not that it mattered now. The damage was done. He’d never live this down. The angel would be bringing it up, reminding him of it five hundred Christmases from now, long after the holiday itself had fallen out of fashion and faded into ancient memory.

“Oh,” she said. “Um, well, anyway. If you’d like to come to the show, it’s Christmas night, of course. Here’s a pamphlet.”

She handed the little tri-folded paper to Aziraphale, grimaced in Crowley’s direction with an apologetic expression, and disappeared back inside the church.

“Thank you ever so much,” the angel called after her, opening the pamphlet to read it.

Crowley stood there, staring straight ahead, for at least a minute. When his left leg began to cramp, he shifted his weight to the right.

Aziraphale’s eyes flitted to the movement at Crowley’s leg and he looked up, returning from whatever headspace he inhabited when he was lost in reading something. “Oh, my dear boy — I’m terribly sorry. Shall we be getting on?”

“Yeah,” Crowley grunted, heading back up the street and leaving Aziraphale shuffling to catch up.

They made it back to the Bentley without another word on the matter, and Crowley hoped against hope that maybe the angel would just forget the whole thing.

Still, Crowley sighed to himself, realizing he’d heard his last holiday performance, at least for this year. He couldn’t possibly go back now and face that nosey Mary again. He’d been utterly humiliated. She’d ask questions, and expect answers, and… it just wasn’t worth it. The only rendition of “Oh, Holy Night” he was going to hear again before next Christmas was Celine Dion’s version… on vinyl.

* * *

What he really needed, he decided, was a good long sleep. It had been a while since he’d gone into a full-scale hibernation, and he thought he was starting to feel the effects. But, with everything that had happened, the End of the World that wasn’t quite so, and all, he’d just sort of been putting it off.

Each day that dawned without fire raining from the sky was a new and exciting blank slate. You just never knew what was going to happen, so Crowley had stayed awake most days, keeping close by Aziraphale, just in case. Just in case of what, neither of them seemed sure, but it was the same mentality that had fueled their decision to avoid miracles for the time being. _Just in case._

But it had been nearly half a year now, and nothing had happened, as far as he could see. So, as he lay in bed on the morning of Christmas Day, he thought perhaps he’d just roll over and go back to sleep. Just forego consciousness through the whole blessed affair. He’d wake up later in the week, perhaps. Snooze through Boxing Day and pop up just in time for New Year’s, share a bit of champagne with his favorite angel, and then... Fuck it, why not? Maybe just go right back under again. Sleep til spring. January was rubbish anyway, and cold. And everyone walked around exuding misery, dimly committed to their new diets.

The doorbell rang.

“Who the fuck?” he mused, rolling over. It wasn’t like the Mormons to come calling on Christmas Day, but he couldn’t imagine who else would be knocking on his door this early in the morning. Maybe they’d go away if he just ignored them. He waited.

It rang again. Crowley listened, thought he caught a slight whiff of old varnish and vanilla buttercream frosting on the air, and sighed.

“Oh,” he yawned. “It’s you.”

The front door opened with a slight creak, and footsteps fell on the entry.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called. “Are you here?”

He got to his feet, cursing his aching bones as he stood, leaning against the bed until he got his legs properly planted beneath him.

“Where the Hell else would I be?” he answered. “Just a minute.”

“Oh,” said the angel, coming down the hallway with a monstrous basket cradled between his arms.

“Angel, what the—” Crowley said, moving to help him.

“Not to worry, dear. I’ve got it,” he said, looking around. “Where should I put this?”

“Well, how should I know?” said Crowley. “What is it?”

“I thought a bit of brunch might be in order,” said Aziraphale, carrying the basket back into the front room, setting it down on the floor next to Crowley’s designer couch.

“Well,” said Crowley, shuffling into the room in bare feet and black silk pajamas. “Angel, we could have just gone out, if you wanted.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him, scandalized. “Go out, on Christmas morning? No, I don’t think so, my dear. It’s shame enough those poor people have to work today, I’m not about to contribute to it personally.”

Crowley shrugged. “Fair enough.”

He sat down on the couch, watching as Aziraphale laid out a blanket and stacks of food on the floor, like a sitting room picnic.

They ate coffee cake, date bread, pudding. There were candied pears and little tarts filled with dark cherries, a spicy black tea that Crowley particularly enjoyed, and creamy hot cocoa that Aziraphale conspiratorially poured a touch of whisky into before handing the mug over to Crowley.

“I thought we might go watch that musical programme later, if you like,” Aziraphale said casually, pressing his own mug of steaming cocoa to his lips with a smile.

Crowley nearly choked, sputtering. “What?”

Aziraphale looked at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say. As if he hadn’t just made the outlandish suggestion of taking Crowley to church.

“Well, I thought it was quite nice,” Azirapahle said, brushing past Crowley’s reaction as if it hadn’t happened. “It would be something festive to do today, in any case.”

“Angel, are you mad? I can’t go in there” He scoffed. “Not that I’d want to—” he started to say, stopping mid-sentence when he caught Aziraphale’s eye. It said something like, _’Come on now, demon. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I know you better.’_

“Uh,” Crowley looked at a speck on his hardwood floor. “You know I can’t.”

“Actually,” Aziraphale said, producing the little paper pamphlet from a pocket in his jacket, “I don’t think it will be a problem. Look here.”

He handed the paper over to Crowley, who took it carefully, only mildly surprised when it didn’t burn his hand.

“It’s not really… well…” Aziraphale said. “It is a _sort_ of church, I suppose. But… not exactly sanctified, as it were.”

“What?” Crowley frowned. “Not a church? Angel, they’ve been singing about the Christ child non-stop, all month.”

“Well,” the angel shrugged. “Pretty sure I heard ‘Deck the Halls’ at one point, and that’s definitely more yule than Christ-centered…”

Crowley raised one skeptical eyebrow in reply.

Aziraphale threw up his hands. “Oh, I don’t know, Crowley. I assume it’s more of a cultural thing for them. I think they’re really more humanist when it comes right down to it. But, in any case, I should know, shouldn’t I? It’s not even got a steeple. You’ll be fine.”

Crowley’s mind flitted back to all those uncomfortable afternoons, huddled outside in the bitter cold. To think he could have gone in... at any time? He looked up, his mouth open. “You can’t be serious.”

Aziraphale shrugged at him, smiling. “Wouldn’t you like to go to church with me, dear?”

* * *

When Crowley exited the wardrobe, Aziraphale was standing in front of the full length mirror, adjusting a spring of holly on his lapel. Crowley blinked. The angel was wearing a top hat. One that Crowley had not seen in a very long time.

“That’s festive, angel,” he said, nodding at the holly. “Looks good on you.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, turning to face him with a brilliant smile. “Thank you, dear. Well, why not, I suppose. It _is_ Christmas.”

“Hm,” Crowley hummed thoughtfully, looking in the mirror at his own attire. He was wearing his recent standard of grey shirt, black jacket and jeans. He wondered if perhaps the special occasion did warrant something a bit more… formal.

He ducked back into the wardrobe, digging around in the back where he had managed to hold onto a few older pieces. Vintage, the people would call them nowadays. Or antique, rather. When he reappeared in the doorway, Aziraphale let out an audible gasp.

He’d achieved something of a blend in decades — the 1860’s tailcoat was classic enough not to look outdated, and meshed relatively seamlessly with the modern shirt underneath. The hat was… a bit much perhaps, but it did serve as the match to Aziraphale’s, so he was hoping it would be all right.

“S’it weird?” Crowley asked. “Don’t wanna stand out too much, I guess. Demon in a church is probably disturbance enough already, yeah?”

“Oh, Crowley,” the angel clasped his hands against his cheeks, positively bubbling over with joy.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, turning pink. “You’re right, it’s too much. I’ll change.”

“No, no, please!” Aziraphale all but dove into the wardrobe after him. “It’s perfect. Don’t you dare change a thing. Oh!” He darted away to the vanity where he’d been snipping sprigs of holly and fir needles into little boutonnieres. “Except for this — you need a matching one.”

Crowley rolled his eyes to cover the blush in his cheeks at the knowledge that Aziraphale found it equally important they match for the day. The angel didn’t seem to take any notice, and quickly danced over to him, pinning the little bundle of sweet smelling evergreen and red berries to his black lapel, a twin of Aziraphale’s cream-colored one.

“Now, come here,” Aziraphale beckoned, tugging Crowley over in front of the mirror. He looped his arm in Crowley’s, admiring how they complimented one another in the mirror image — top hats to toes.

“Oh my,” he wiggled with happiness. “Would you look at that. We look straight out of _A Christmas Carol_!”

“Oh,” Crowley smirked. “Does that still make me Scrooge?”

Aziraphale slapped his arm lightly, frowning. “Not in the slightest.” He smoothed one hand over Crowley’s sleeve, admiring the soft black fabric. “Crowley, I didn’t even know you still had this!”

“Yeah well,” Crowley shrugged, looking at his own image in the mirror. The fine black tailcoat would certainly have turned to dust ages ago, if it weren’t for a certain miracle he’d placed on it. The cane was something he’d missed ever since the bloody things had gone out of fashion at the turn of the century. He was glad to have an excuse to carry one again, even if it was just for the day.

He was surprised by how seamlessly the Victorian touches blended with his usual knit t-shirt and silver scarf. The dark red pants were a minor miracle, but if Aziraphale didn’t notice, he wasn’t going to say anything. Anyway, they broke up the line that lead to his black, silver tipped boots quite nicely.

Crowley squinted at Aziraphale’s white fur top hat, wondering. He was pretty sure that hat had been lost ages ago. He suspected he was not the only one sneaking in a few miracles today.

* * *

art by [cassieoh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh)

* * *

As they neared the church, Crowley began to grow uncertain again. He cut his eyes over at Aziraphale, squinting through dark glasses to gauge his expression.

“You sure about this, angel?”

“Quite sure,” Aziraphale replied confidently. “Look,” he said, pointing up towards the top of the building. “No steeple, no cross, no nothing.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t necessarily mean…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, sounding a little offended. “If this place were blessed by the Christ, don’t you think I would know? I assure you, nothing in there is going to do you any harm.”

Crowley sighed, continuing down the pavement and trying to shake the nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale said cheerfully. “If for some reason the floorboards do burn your toes, I can carry you to the pew, quick as you like.”

“Oh, right,” scoffed Crowley. “That’s sure not to attract any attention at all.”

Aziraphale giggled into his hands, clad so delicately in little cream kid leather gloves. Crowley took a moment to admire his angel, all dressed up for the occasion. He had to admit, 19th century fashions did still suit him. He figured he’d better not say anything, or Aziraphale was liable to go back to wearing the full ensemble as an everyday look again.

They came to a stop right in front of the church. Both doors stood open, and Mary was off to one side, greeting people as they entered the building. She hadn’t noticed them yet. There was still time to turn around and put this entire fantasy behind him.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, grasping Crowley’s elbow lightly. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning on his cane. “M’good.”

He took a step towards the doors, then another, and another, emboldened by the angel at his side and the cane in his hand.

As they approached, Mary looked up, a programme flyer at the ready. She let out a little gasp, which she quickly downplayed with a polite, “Oh, hello gentlemen.”

Aziraphale removed his hat, smiling. “Hello, Mary. And how are you on this fine Christmas Day?”

“Great, thanks,” she said, glancing up at Crowley.

He cleared his throat, glad for the glasses hiding his eyes. “Hello.”

“Happy Yule,” she said.

“Uh,” Crowley looked around, uncertain how to respond. “Yeah. Blessed be, and all that.”

She smiled, stifling a laugh, and handed Aziraphale two programs for them. “You both look so festive. I love the hats.”

“Oh,” said Crowley, remembering to take his off. “Right. Thanks. Come on, angel.”

Aziraphale was giggling softly under his breath. “She thinks you’re a pagan.”

“Yeah. Ha ha,” grumbled Crowley. “Hilarious.”

They were through the outer doors, and Crowley could feel his heartbeat thrumming in his own ears. But they hadn’t technically passed the threshold yet, he told himself. They were walking through a sort of foyer and before them lay another set of doors, and… Crowley stopped in his tracks.

“Crowley?”

People were passing on either side of them, and Crowley became painfully aware of how conspicuous they must appear, standing still in the doorway.

“There’s pews, angel.”

“Well, of course, there are,” said Aziraphale quietly. “Surely you knew that, already?”

“And stained glass. There’s even—”

“Crowley,” the angel ushered him to one side, looping his arm in Crowley’s for support. “1941. You rushed into that church, — that God’s honest cathedral — like it was nothing. Why has _this_ got you so rattled?”

Crowley turned to him, seething. “Like it was— I was nearly _late_ , angel. I danced around outside that bloody church for going on five minutes, trying to think of any other way… And then the bastards pulled guns on you, so I just ran in without thinking. I was fucking terrified.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes brimming with love. “Oh… Oh, my dear.”

“Hng,” said Crowley. “Stop it.”

Aziraphale looked positively ecstatic, and he was working on a dimly illuminated halo manifesting behind his white curls. Crowley pulled free of the angel’s light grip, trying to will away the warmth of blood rushing to his own cheeks in response. He went over to the doorway, looked inside the church, and took a deep breath.

He raised one foot and stepped across the threshold.

Nothing happened.

He followed with the other, tapping his cane down on the interior side of the sanctuary.

He stood there for a moment, stretching his toes inside their black leather shoes.

Nothing. Just an ordinary hardwood floor, like the angel had said.

Aziraphale came to stand beside Crowley, and offered his arm, smiling. “Shall we?”

* * *

Crowley knew the programme by heart already, of course, but it was somehow a completely new thing, sitting there, amongst so many humans — able to not only hear but also to see the goings on. Not having to strain his ears to hear over the traffic and noise of the bustling street certainly enhanced the experience, too.

It began with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” which lead naturally into “O, Christmas Tree.” In the printed programme, the typist had used a strikethrough mark over “Christmas” and replaced it with “Yuletide” eliciting a few giggles from the audience. Aziraphale looked around, confused, until Crowley pointed it out to him.

“Oh,” he chuckled, “A fair point, I believe.”

Towards the midpoint of the programme, someone brought out a menorah, placing it on a table at the front of the stage. Mary came out to the podium and introduced a rabbi, who said a few words about community and thanking the church for having him. He said the appropriate blessings for the fourth night of Hanukkah, which it was, and lit the candles, inviting everyone in the room to be a part of the communal ceremony for the evening.

The next few songs were in Hebrew and Yiddish, with some English peppered in. Crowley was surprised to hear Aziraphale humming along with most of them, happily swaying in his seat.

Almost before he knew it, the final medley began, and Crowley sat up straighter. Aziraphale must have noticed, because he glanced over, smiling at him.

“It’s the finale,” he whispered.

“Ah,” Aziraphale nodded in understanding.

The beautiful sound of “Carol of the Bells” filled the lofty ceiling of the building, and Crowley closed his eyes in satisfaction. It was perfect.

* * *

“I can’t believe you still insist on using real candles,” Crowley shook his head, carefully lighting one of the said candles on the heavily laden fir tree with a small match. “Especially after…” Crowley shuddered, preferring not to think about it.

“Oh, don’t worry, Crowley,” Aziraphale called from the kitchenette, where he was pouring hot cocoa into mugs. “I’ve been decorating my tree the same way since 1842, and it hasn’t caught fire yet. Anyway, doesn’t it smell nice?”

Crowley leaned in closer, realizing that, yes, all the precariously perched candles were vanilla scented. It did smell nice.

Aziraphale came into the room carrying a silver platter bearing the cocoa, a stack of shortbread biscuits, and a pile of chocolate truffles. He set it all down on the little table next to the couch.

“Hm,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, “Speaking of smells…”

“What about smells?” Crowley frowned, watching as Aziraphale walked back over toward the tree, where he was still busy lighting the little white candles.

Aziraphale leaned in, burying his face in Crowley’s hair, sniffing at his neck, and taking one last deep whiff of his shoulder.

“What the—” Crowley protested, twisting away in surprise. “What are you smelling _me_ for?”

“Mhmm,” Aziraphale said, nodding smugly. “Knew it.”

He walked away, going back to settle on the couch and take a bite of biscuit.

“Angel?” Crowley said, following him over to the couch.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale was sipping his cocoa sagely, eyes closed in pleasure.

“What the hell?” Crowley asked, sniffing himself. “Do I… need a bath, or something?”

Aziraphale laughed, popping the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. He chewed, chuckling to himself. “No, dear. But do you know what you smell like?”

“Uh…”

“It’s a very distinct scent, at least to me.” Aziraphale was looking at him with hooded eyes, like he might like to nibble on Crowley in a similar fashion to the biscuit he’d just devoured. “You smell like—”

Crowley sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I know,” he said, walking over to sit on the couch and reaching for his cocoa. “Brimstone, fire, smoke. Like rotten eggs and volcanic ash had a baby. Basically, evil.”

“What?” Aziraphale looked scandalized. “No! Crowley you don’t smell like any of those things — ugh, how unpleasant.”

Crowley had just shoved an entire biscuit past his teeth, and was gulping it down with a mouthful of hot cocoa. “Mmm?” he raised an eyebrow in question.

“Is that what you think you smell like?” Aziraphale looked aghast.

“Uh, well… that’s typically what demons smell like,” Crowley shrugged.

Aziraphale was glaring at him. “You have never been typical, my dear.”

Crowley turned, taking a sip of his cocoa and hiding his face in the mug.

The angel smiled sagely, leaning back into the throw pillows. “Incense. Clove. Nutmeg and cumin, with a bit of turmeric mixed in. A freshly extinguished candle — or a cedarwood campfire, evergreen scented smoke. That little acidic twinge on the nostrils right after a lightning strike, ozone on the air before a thunderstorm.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, turning to look at Crowley with a dreamy look in his eyes. “That is what you smell like, darling.”

Crowley stared into his mostly empty mug of cocoa, rather at a loss for words.

He uttered a string of inarticulate noises, and once it ran its course, found that he had nothing worthwhile to say.

“Anyway,” said Aziraphale. “The point is, while we were sitting in that church this evening, I kept smelling all of those things in abundance. At first, I thought it was only because you were very close by. But even when I moved away from you, or fell behind as we were entering and exiting the building, the fragrances remained just as strong. And it was more than just the scent, Crowley.”

“Y-yeah?” Crowley managed to stutter, reaching for another cookie.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, sitting up straighter and sipping his cocoa. “There was a feeling about the entire place.”

“If you say, love…” Crowley threatened, jabbing the biscuit towards Aziraphale to emphasize each word.

“Well,” the angel tilted his head to one side, “Certainly, that. But more than that, it felt like…”

He paused, and Crowley shot his eyes in Aziraphale’s direction suspiciously. “What?”

Aziraphale shrugged, seemingly at a loss for any other answer. “It felt like a holy place.”

“But you said—”

“I know what I said, and obviously if such were the case, you’d be icing your feet right about now. I don’t know how else to explain it Crowley — there’s no other language to describe it, but… it felt like a place that has been… inhabited by an ethereal being. A being capable of leaving its mark on a place, having dwelled in it, or directed their attention to it for long enough.”

Crowley frowned at him.

“You, Crowley,” Aziraphale clasped his mug, smiling brightly. “You’ve blessed that place.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not possible.”

“And why not?”

“M’a demon, aren’t I?” Crowley scoffed. “Can’t go around bestowing b—blessings.”

Aziraphale had dropped his gaze, looking down at the empty mug in his lap. “And I don’t suppose…” he said, slow and measured. “I don’t suppose I’m capable of possessing a human, either, am I? Or of defying Heaven’s will?”

His eyes rose, fixing Crowley with open adoration.

Crowley’s face fell, taking in his meaning. “Uh…” he said. “Oh.”

“We’re more alike than different, my dear. But then, that shouldn’t be news anymore, should it? Being on our own side, and all?”

Crowley felt something warm blooming in his chest, and let a tentative smile quirk at the corner of his mouth. “A Hellish blessing?” he said. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“No, my dear,” said Aziraphale, shifting closer on the couch. “An Earthly one, I rather think. You aren’t bound to Hell any longer, anymore than I am to Upstairs.”

“An Earthly blessing?” Crowley let the idea sink in, awed by it.

“Music, dancing, bright decorations, the joy of a shared community. None of what we enjoyed tonight had anything explicitly tied to doctrine,” gushed Aziraphale, apparently blissfully pleased with this idea. “They were human joys, stories, and dreams, emboldened and strengthened by your love for them.”

Crowley shook his head. “N—no, they were meeting there long before I took any notice. I didn’t make that happen.”

Aziraphale smiled, leaning against Crowley’s shoulder. “Maybe not, but I asked Mary on our way out. That congregation has been meeting there for just over a year. And, um…” He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “She may have mentioned a mysterious donation to their music programme, sometime about, oh… eight months ago, or so?”

Crowley’s face went pink. “Oh. Right.”

“Don’t tell me you forgot?”

“Well,” Crowley shrugged. “I was walking by one day, heard singing… it was pretty good. So, I guess I figured…”

Aziraphale sat up, looking a combination of accusatory and incredibly amused. “You figured you’d meddle in human affairs, and there’d be no lasting ramifications?”

“Ahh,” Crowley looked askance. “Fair point.”

Aziraphale laughed, bubbling over with happiness. “Oh, my dear. You really are just the nicest—”

“Hey—”

“Kindest—”

“Stop it.”

“Most darlingest—”

“That’s not even a word.”

“—sweetest demon an angel ever did know.”

He leaned in, planting a kiss on Crowley’s cheek.

“ _Ngk_.”

Aziraphale’s halo was lighting up the room, and though he’d never say a word… The angel couldn’t help but notice a soft little glimmer illuminating the crown of a certain demon’s head, as well.

“Oh, Happy Christmas, my dear,” said Aziraphale.

“Merry Yule, I guess,” Crowley replied, with a lopsided grin.

“Is your leg still bothering you?” Aziraphale asked suddenly, putting his mug down.

Crowley stretched, yawning. “Almost always,” he grunted.

“Well,” said Aziraphale with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Let’s have it here, then. I’m quite sure these hands can spare a few healing miracles, today of all days.”

Crowley sighed happily, leaning back against the pillows and letting the angel gather his legs up into his lap. He ran gentle hands over knobby knees and brittle shins, squeezing them with the soft tenderness of familiarity.

And so, an angel and a demon spent the remainder of Christmas night, drinking cocoa and passing the hours in joyful company, basking in the warmth of healing affection and, yes… love.

* * *

1 In demonology, Byleth (also spelled Bilet, Bileth, Beleth and Bilith) is a mighty and terrible king of Hell. Being vaguely associated with music, he is notorious for missing no opportunity to play a role in producing the catchiest and most torturous of tunes. He is suspected of being author to countless earworms, including "The Song That Never Ends," "Baby Shark," and, perhaps his most infernal creation, "Macarena." Originally released in 1995, this Spanish dance song still sends 17,428 wedding DJs into violent rages each year globally, on average. In recent years, it has become Aziraphale's go-to for social occasions, as the gavotte has unfortunately fallen out of fashion.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, friends! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season filled with lots of love, warmth, and light!🎄🕎✨
> 
> Chat at me on [Tumblr](http://vgersix.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/vgersixwrites) | Check out [my Ao3 profile page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/profile) for more info about current writing projects and more //
> 
> Much love,  
> Laura / vgersix


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